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“Whoy, he tak’s t’ th’ pap-bottle as nat’rally as if he’n ne’er had nowt else!”

And the big man—quite a contrast to Simon—stooped and lifted the babe from the cradle with all the ease of long practice, and dandled it in his arms, saying as he did so,

“Let’s hey a look at th’ little chap. Aw’ve not seen the colour o’ his eyen yet.”

The eyes were grey, so dark they might have passed for black; and there was in them more than the ordinary inquiring gaze of babyhood.

“Well, thah’rt a pratty lad; but had thah bin th’ fowest6 i’ o’ Lankisheer, aw’d a-thowt thi mammy’d ha’ speered7 fur thi afore this,” added he, sitting down, and nodding to the child, which crowed in his face.

“Ah! one would ha’ reckoned so,” assented Bess, without turning round.

“What ar’ ta gooin’ to do, Simon, toward fandin’ th’ choilt’s kin?” next questioned their visitor.

Simon looked puzzled

“Whoy, aw’ve hardly gi’en it a thowt.”

But the question, once started, was discussed at some length. Meanwhile the porridge destined for two Bess poured into three bowls, placing three iron spoons beside them, with no more ceremony than, “Ye’ll tak’ a sup wi’ us, Mat.”